The Barricades Fell
by 7levelsoftheworld
Summary: Éponine survived the June rebellion, and it appears as though she is the only one. However, hope comes in the form of news that there was a man taken prisoner from the last barricade to fall. Éponine risks everything to help him escape, believing him to be Marius, but she will learn that fate has a way of tricking people.
1. The Barricades Fell

**Please be aware that this story contains graphic images and suicidal thoughts. I will not use unwarranted graphic images, but I will try to keep this as realistic as possible.**

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The barricades fell. Every single barricade was overrun with soldiers, and every single man on the wrong side was executed without question, without pause, without time to do anything except acknowledge their imminent death – and sometimes not even enough time for that. Now all that was left was a pile of broken furniture in a deserted street. The windows of the buildings around were closed and the air was filled with the silent echo of gunfire and the cries of dying men. The only person witness to the aftermath was a girl covered in the grime of Parisian streets.

Éponine Thénardier looked in horrified shock at the battered Café Musain, the same café in which _Les Amis de l'ABC _met to dream and plan of their rebellion. The memories of nights spent at Marius' side listening to the meetings and hearing the laughter and arguments of young men discovering the world and trying to make it their own rushed through her mind. Those vestiges of happiness and excitement were soon becoming overshadowed by what she had endured that night when she had huddled against an old crate bloated from rain. She had sobbed to the death that rang through every street of Paris, from every barricade, from every direction. The horrors that assaulted her felt ingrained into her skin, as much a part of her now as the dirt that had cumulated over the years. She had waited in the alley like a scared child until the ringing gunshots finally stopped and the soldiers had gone, taking the fallen with them. Her bare feet crept over the harsh rocks and pebbles that littered the street, and slowly carried her towards what remained. Her gaze moved from the bruised Café sign and were now fixed solidly on the barricade, and all she could hear was gunfire, all she could smell was the smoke, and all she could see were the men who were so brave and so alive when she had left them in the dark. The pile of rubble had looked so impressive in the heady rush of its construction, it truly seemed as though it could withstand the might of Paris' trained soldiers. Now, in the bleak light of dawn it looked no larger than a mound of fresh snow, pathetic, weak, and all too willing to soak up spilt blood.

The girl turned her eyes to the street before her, at the stagnant, congealing puddles of dark red that seemed to be everywhere. Her lungs were constricted against the still air and although she knew that the blood belonged to those who defended the barricade her entire body rejected the very idea. How could such beautiful and vibrant beings produce such ugly, shadowy murk? She continued to walk forward, her feet steady even as her hands shook as though she stood in a winter storm and clutched at her tattered skirt.

The often-felt desire to turn back time surged through her emaciated body. She had experienced the feeling often of late. It had occurred upon seeing Cosette in all her finery and remembering the shaming cruelty of her childhood. Then again when she had seen Marius' face as he had gazed after the glinting gold ringlets and feeling the harsh sting of unsaid words and suppressed longing. Perhaps if she had said something before – but no, those thoughts were poison, especially now, especially in the silence. After all, regret for wasted love did not belong in this place for he was one of the beautiful and vibrant and fallen of the barricade. As she looked upon the stained wood of broken furniture she longed for her blood to mix with that of Marius upon the ground, she longed to return to the previous day and stay with him behind the broken furniture and red flag. She could feel the strings of her mind unfurling, her body becoming undone by the understanding that now, once again, she was alone.

She was alone as she had always been but somehow now even more than before. The happiness of Marius had flashed before her eyes like a lightning bolt, and she could still see his silhouette burned against the back of her eyelids. The taste of love was still bitter upon her tongue and the gleam of her younger brother's eyes echoed through her mind. She was destined now to wander the familiar streets of Paris, lost and alone. If only she had stayed behind, if only she had not let the terror of death and bullets prevent her from returning, if only she had grabbed Gavroche's hand and pulled her brother to safety along with her.

As her feet made the long journey down the street, and towards the Café Musain, terrifying clarity rushed through her. This was where it ended. She now knew what was going to happen to her, what she would ensure. She would remain for a while, before joining Marius and Gavroche. It would be painful and longer than a knife to her wrist or a gun to her head, but starvation would be her way. Her ribs were already so pressed against her paper-thin skin that it would not be long.

She was so close now. If she reached out she would be able to touch the ragged wood. Transfixed by what lay before, she paid no heed to what was underneath. She was jerked from her musings when her foot touched something wet. She stopped with a jolt and stared down at the red now staining her dirty toes. A scream bubbled up from her throat and she lurched away. Stumbling she fell to her knees on dry, dirty stone, and heaved stinging bile onto the street before the pile of rubble where she should have died.

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**This will be a multi-chapter story and this will have eventual Enjolras/Eponine even though it obviously does not look like it now. Thank you so much for reading! If you want to leave a review please do so!**


	2. A Little Known Truth

A little known truth: when a person has no desire to end up anywhere, they tend to always end up somewhere. Éponine had been wandering the streets of Paris for a little over a day. There was no destination for her to strive for, and nowhere to escape from. So, she walked, lost in a self-afflicting kind of way. Just as it had been for many before her, and many since, she suddenly found herself exactly in the place she had been looking for, she just did not know it. She paused at the edge of an alley and gazed up at the building in front of her.

_Prison de La Force_. It stretched four stories high and a coldness drifted from it to touch Éponine's bare feet and hollow out her thin cheeks. She could feel the men inside, the ones awaiting trial, the condemned. The prison was foreboding, not as intimidating and deadly as the long destroyed Bastille, but it still brought on a shiver just the same. She stood in front of the smaller half, the prison that used to be reserved for the whores and prostitutes, but was now used to hold the younger men. They were the first offenders, the ones who may live to walk the streets of Paris again. Not all of them would however, not all of them would leave.

Her weary and bloodshot eyes traveled the edge of the roof, an action that warmed the coldness in her throat. The roof still bore the resemblance of a home, which the prison had once been. A grand and majestic building, but it still held remnants of the place that once housed a family.

She lowered her eyes and looked down the road that ran next to the prison as her sharp ears picked up the sound of heavy boots. Fear rose in her throat and she backed away into the shadows of the alley behind her. She hid from men for she knew all to well what they were capable of, especially at night, especially the ones who wore heavy boots.

Peering hesitantly around the corner she saw two prison guards, fresh off a long day inside the menacing building looming behind them. They walked along together, sharing stories of their day and relaxing in the stillness of the late June evening.

Éponine unconsciously held her breath as they neared her hiding spot and her heartbeat sounded loud enough to echo across the bricks. How could they not hear it? Their conversation drifted towards her and the words she heard caused her already rapidly pounding heart to speed up even more.

"Did you hear him?" One guard asked, his full beard shining a blondish white in the light of the moon.

"I do not believe anyone in Paris could have missed his mooning and yelling. All day it seems he goes on and on about that blasted woman of his. I almost wish they had killed him straight away instead of insisting he stand trial." Grumbled his companion who was clean-shaven and heavyset.

"You will have your silence soon enough." The bearded guard said, "He will stand trial and be condemned. Dead within a fortnight."

" Why he must stand trial I will never know. They should have shot him dead where he stood. All those barricades were treasonous folly. I heard that all the other students where he fought stood their ground and were shot for their efforts. Why he was spared…" The guard scoffed and shook his head.

"Well, I heard that they want to make an example of him. Make the execution public and all. So that any other Republican revolutionary who believes he can stand up against the crown will know to not even speak a word that could be taken as treason."

Éponine scooted farther towards the end of the alley, trying to hear better as the guards were now passed her and their words were getting fainter.

"I suppose it is fitting. The last man alive at the last barricade to fall." The guard mused, his words so faint Éponine had to lean out of the alley in order to catch them. Once she did, and understood what they meant, her legs shook so they could no longer support her. She slumped to the ground and leaned her forehead against her knees.

Marius was alive. She knew it. The last barricade to fall was the barricade at Café Musain. They said the prisoner was continuously talking of the woman he loved. The thought stung, but it was all the proof she needed to be certain it was Marius, and his lovelorn ramblings of beautiful Cosette.

A hardness built inside of her chest as her thoughts swirled around the one truth she could hold to. Marius was alive, but not for long, not if he stayed in La Force. Rising to her feet Éponine looked down the street to see it once again vacant of all but herself. She turned her eyes back to the prison, now instead of examining the roof she looked at the windows. Marius was behind one of them. She felt courage soar through her, a courage that she had sorely lacked just a night previously. She would make up for it however. She would take advantage of her temporary fearlessness, and use it to save the man she loved. She was going to break Marius Pontmercy out of _Prison de La Force_, and she knew exactly who could help her.

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**Firstly, thanks to all who reviewed! **

**Secondly, in response to fictionfrek101, while there will be at least one flashback sequence I am not planning at this time on Eponine's choice at the barricade to be one of them. However, it will be explained later on in the story. **

**Thirdly, thank you to everyone who's read so far!  
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	3. It Was Not Easy to Forget

It was not easy to forget the way blood splattered. Nor was it easy to forget how fast a body could fall, or how quickly a soul could seep out through a bullet hole. There were many thoughts that ran through Enjolras' mind as he stood defiantly behind a billiard-table, waiting for the soldiers to make their clumsy way up to him. He thought of the men who had fallen outside, and who were slumped on the floor before him. He thought of his skin, and the irony of how he, out of everyone, was the only man left who had not yet tasted the acrid metal of a bullet. For a brief second he thought of how even though his love for Patria and the republic was the strongest emotion he would ever know, he would still have liked to know the feel of a woman's lips, if only for a teasing glimpse of normalcy. Mostly he thought of how grateful he was that death was so near, so he would not have to remember or try to forget.

A soldier's head poked through the stairwell, and all thoughts fled his mind as Enjolras' right hand clenched the blood-red flag that tiredly trailed on the ground around him. The heavy-booted men quickly filled the little room. Guns were raised at him and one soldier said with the voice of well-oiled leather,

"**He is the leader! It was he who slew the artillery-man. It is well that he has placed himself there. Let him remain there. Let us shoot him down on the spot**." A cold fist clutched at Enjolras' heart, but he gave no appearance of fear. Skilling his face into a mask of indifference, he dropped the broken gun-barrel and crossed his arms over his chest.

"**Shoot me**." He stated, and he bared his chest as a slight thrill of pride coursed through him at the steady courage found in his voice. The soldiers stared at him from across the room, respect evident in their eyes.

"**It seems to me that I am about to shoot a flower**." One at the front said reverently. A voice spoke up at the back of group near the stairs.

"Then do not shoot at all." A tall man walked forward, a sergeant as evidenced from his uniform. "We have been given orders to take a revolutionary into custody. The crown wants to provide the people with an example as to what occurs to those who resist the law. This man is the last, and the leader as well. He will do."

The inklings of fear had ebbed at his heart, but as Enjolras listened to the words of the Sergeant true terror gripped him.

"No." He cried out, his hand absent-mindedly dropping the flag as he backed further against the wall. "Shoot me. Shoot me now!" He knew he would not be able to live past the barricade, whether his heart continued to beat or not. A clatter broke his cries and joy lit his face like a flash of lightning before horror rose up once again.

"**Long live the Republic! I am one of them.**" Grantaire shouted as he pushed his way through the throng of soldiers to stand next to Enjolras, the smell of alcohol still heavy on his breath and clothes. "**Long live the Republic**!" The sergeant looked between the two young men stood before him, until at last he turned his gaze back to Enjolras. Meeting his eyes he stated,

"Take the blonde. Shoot the drunk."

The soldiers moved forward, some stepping up to drag Enjolras away, and one other raising a gun to Grantaire's head.

"No! Shoot me! Kill me, instead!" Enjolras screamed, struggling against the strong grasps of the soldiers. He watched in heartbroken terror as Grantaire bent down and picked up the fallen red flag.

"Vive la France!" He stated passionately, raising the flag high in his hand. His eye caught Enjolras' before moving past to look at the ceiling and sky beyond.

No, it was not easy to forget the way blood splattered.

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**Hi! Sorry about taking a little longer to get this chapter up. I went back to college this week so things have been a bit hectic. Thank you so much for the reviews and for generally being incredibly nice! **

**Just so you all know, everything that is bolded in the story is dialogue taken directly from _Les Miserables_.  
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**Thank you so much for reading!  
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	4. The Walls of La Force

The walls of _La Force_ used to be white. The years since the large home had been transformed into a prison had cracked and dirtied the once fresh paint. The state of the cell seemed to conjure the visages of its past occupants. The peeling paint and cracked plaster mirrored the overly white and red faces of the prostitutes who used to call the prison master. The scrubbed floors reimagined the young criminals who had waited trial pacing or collapsed upon them. They were clean, but no matter how often they were scrubbed they could never stop being prison floors.

Enjolras sat upon them. His knees were pulled to his chest and his hands were continuously flexing against the dirty fabric. His blue eyes stared unseeing at the space above his knees. In the dim edge of his vision he could see Courfeyrac in the corner, and the blood that stained his battle-worn shirt. He could feel Combeferre next to him, his friend's cold hand hovering about his shoulder. Grantaire was slumped across the small cot that pressed against the opposite wall, the dirty sheets growing darker as red spread across them. He could see Feuilly, Joly, Jehan, all of them crowded in the little cell. _Les Amis_ remained still as statues, their eyes fixed on their leader. He too was unmoving, except for a silent, violent, and unstoppable trembling that wracked his body. His eyes remained fixed on the emptiness atop his knees. He refused to look at them, refused to meet their gaze. He did not want to know what he would find in the deadness of their eyes. Be it love, admiration, hatred, or accusation he could not stomach any of it.

He had tried to distract himself from thoughts of his friends. He had ranted loudly at the guard in the hall about how his love would endure long after he was gone, how his mistress deserved a better man than he. These prison speeches were unlike any he had ever given before. They were scattered, and the strength once evident in his voice had been replaced with an embarrassing waver, but he continued to talk anyway. His incessant oration irritated the guards. The irritation swiftly changed to anger when, after a few days, they discovered that the "mistress" he had been referring to was actually France.

Two guards had surged into the cell. One, a slightly older man with an impressive blond beard, strode towards him. Smoothly grabbing Enjolras' shoulder he dragged him down, his fist colliding with Enjolras' abdomen. The other guard, with a face smooth as a twelve year-old boy's, joined in and kicked the prisoner to the ground. They did not talk. The only sounds in the cell were the grunts of the blond boy on the ground, curled against the fists and heavy black boots of the guards. They worked swiftly and stayed only a few minutes before they retreated and the closing of the heavy door reverberated across the floor.

That was how Enjolras found himself propped against a wall with bruises already blossoming across his face and arms. He could feel the skin around his right eye slowly swelling from a particularly vicious punch from the blond guard. His body ached as he pulled his knees towards himself, shielding himself from the loss of his voice. The silence, the nothing, was being replaced with the memories. He could see his friends. He could sense them around him. How could one feel the absence of breath, the stillness of a heart? The truth slammed against him, faster than a fist and harder than a boot. His friends were dead. The men he had led to the barricade were dead, and he was alive.

Revulsion filled him. The sight of his own skin, pure and unpunctured by bullet or sword, tore at his stomach. The sound of his heart beating, steady and strong, caused his ears to ring and his head to ache.

He clutched at his face. His breath was full, yet stuttered on the exhale. His eyes were dry, and he doubted he would ever cry again. His friends did not deserve his tears; they deserved his life.

"Forgive me." He whispered.

A muted thud answered. Dropping his hands, Enjolras looked up with blurry vision. A scratching sound could be heard, and he turned his swollen gaze to the cell door. The noise was agitating, yet Enjolras could feel excited energy seeping into his bones.

The scratching stopped abruptly, and then the door swung open with a low whine. A girl strode inside, her eyes bright until they landed on him. A strange expression crossed over her face. She looked around the room, as though hoping to find something else. Evident confusion furrowed her brow and her large brown eyes shot back to him on the floor.

"Enjolras." She whispered. Her voice was hoarse and her hair was a tangle about her shoulders. He knew her face, yet he could not recall from where.

"_Bonjour_." He stated, his confusion evident. His voice seemed loud and he flinched slightly at the feel of it. She stared at him.

"Éponine!" A quiet voice, masculine and smooth like the barrel of a gun, jarred the girl from whatever thoughts had been clamoring in her mind. Her face changed yet again, and her shoulders straightened. Walking forward with firm steps, she held her hand out to him.

"_Monsieur_, come with me." She said, her voice strong and determined. Enjolras studied her hand before looking up into her face, which was steely with resolve. The presence of _Les Amis_ disappeared and suddenly it was just the two of them in the cell, Enjolras and the girl. There were so many things he should have done. He should have refused. He should have stayed behind. He should have died. He took her hand instead.

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**I apologize for how long it took me to update! These past couple weeks have been crazy busy. Thank you to all who reviewed, reading your feedback makes my day brighter!**


	5. Montparnasse

**So... what can I say? I am so sorry it's taken me so long to upload. I have a lot of excuses but none of them really validate me ignoring my story for so long. desmondaCC, thank you so much for the review, you're the reason I finally stopped procrastinating and got to work. **

**Also Les Miserables was written by Victor Hugo and I am obviously not him so I own none of this.**

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Montparnasse was waiting in the hall. A guard lay in a pitiful, bludgeoned pile at his feet. His eyes, bright and large, were sharp against Éponine's face. He glanced at the boy and paused long enough to let his gaze follow the curve of his jaw and take note of the golden hair that curled against his neck. Montparnasse looked at Éponine, an amused question curving his mouth.

"We must go." She stated, the words coming out smoothly and masking the grief that spiraled down her spine. She stepped forward, pulling the boy along by the hand still gripped tightly in her own.

The motion of the boy reaffirming his hold of Éponine's hand drew the gaze of Montparnasse. A chill settled upon the face beneath the carefully styled black hair. His mouth contorted into a disgusted grimace, and his eyes flashed from the joined hands to Éponine's steely expression. Without a word he whirled around and strode down the hall, his thin yet fashionable coat billowing out behind him. Éponine and the boy followed, both taking care to not step in the blood pooling beneath the fallen guard.

The halls of La Force all looked the same. Turning from one length of white walls into another, equally long, stretch of white. Éponine could see the confusion evident on the boy's face as they followed Montparnasse in what felt like circles. Montparnasse and Éponine were skilled in finding their way through mazes. A scuff on the floor or a small crack in the wall was a signpost that led them through.

Montparnasse moved with a quick and silent step. A bludgeon was clutched in his right hand, ready in case any unplanned guard was to stumble across them.

They turned a corner and finally Éponine could see it. The door led to an alleyway. Once they reached the outside it would be next to impossible for anyone to follow. Éponine had grown up with the rats of Paris and knew all their favorite places to hide. A guard was stationed near the door. He was a slight, whelp of a man with bulging eyes that rested within cavernous eye sockets. He attempted to stare at Montparnasse, but his eyes continued to flit to and away from the Dandy striding towards him.

He was the guard who let the two of them inside the prison. Montparnasse had connections everywhere, which was the main reason Éponine approached him to assist her. Montparnasse, and the _Patron-Minette_ in general, had the ability to wheedle out the disloyal or threaten the weak-hearted. From the way the guard's hands shook Éponine thought it safe to assume he was of the latter category. A comrade of Montparnasse, Claquesous, had a strange knack for escaping police custody and Éponine had the suspicion she had finally learned the secret behind this uncanny ability.

The guard darted out of their way and finally the three were through the door. The boy's hand tightened around Eponine's in the darkness of the alleyway. After a moment Eponine's eyes adjusted to the night and she could see the brick of the opposite wall.

"Come. The rest are waiting for us." Montparnasse stated, his words silky and soft. He began to walk away.

Eponine backed away from him. Her head was filled with the pounding rhythm of her heart and she could feel the silent presence of the boy at her back. The remaining three of the _Patron-Minette _were waiting for them somewhere in the maze of Paris. She knew what would happen to her, and to the black-eyed boy who had yet to say a word. The Dandy stopped and looked back. His eyes were shadowed, but his voice came out harsher than before.

"Eponine, we had a deal."

"Yes." She replied, yet made no move to follow. He strode towards her and gripped her thin arms in his elegant hands.

"You know what will happen if you break it." He purred. She swallowed and without realizing clung even more to the boy's hand.

"I know what will happen if I don't."

A crack echoed down the tight walls of the alley. Eponine's hand fell away from the boy's as she hit the ground with a muted thud. She did not cry out and instead just lay there breathing heavily through her nose.

"After all I have done for you." Montparnasse hissed, looming over her and gripping his bludgeon tightly. "After all these years you're still the little whore who cried when your father made you work for your food. You will come with me, and I will make sure you pay me back for everything I have ever-"

His words broke off with a sharp cry of pain before he crumpled into a heavy, useless heap atop Éponine's legs. She looked up in shock and saw the outline of the boy, holding a brick and looking back at her with unyielding resolve.

"_Mademoiselle_, are you hurt?" He asked softly, leaning down and moving Montparnasse's unconscious body so she could free her legs.

"No, _Monsieur._" She stood up and, without bothering to brush the extra grime and dirt from her ragged skirt, reached for the boy's hand. She pulled him in the opposite direction of the _Patron-Minette_. "Hurry. We do not want to be here when the guards realize you are gone."

The pair disappeared into the bleak Parisian night, leaving behind the pitiless body in a puddle of muck and blood.

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**Thank you so much for reading. I will definitely try to update faster from now on. I won't give you a set date because, in all honesty, my life is pretty hectic right now but I will make every effort to get up another chapter by sometime next week at the latest. You all are awesome! I****f you want to I always appreciate when people leave reviews.**


	6. She Was Smoke

She was smoke, a hazy figure that he followed further and deeper into the pit of Paris. She dragged him through an achingly confusing web of alleys with a confidence that spoke of familiarity. He felt clumsy compared to the quick, elegant way she maneuvered her body so it never left the safety of the darkest of shadows. The minutes stretched and the longer he followed her the harder it was for his eyes to focus on her.

The words echoed in the stillness.

"I know you."

With a jerk that pulled everything back into razor sharp clarity, she turned back to look at him. Her dark eyes shone abnormally large in her shadowed, bony face.

"I should hope so." She replied. Her tone was dry and the words rasped softly in the night air.

Smoke.

She did not slow down, even as she looked at him. Abruptly turning down a corner, her arm dragged him after her. His steps were not loud, but hers seemed nonexistent.

"Your name is Éponine." His voice was softer and he could see a grimace on the sliver of face that was turned to him.

"Yes."

"Have we met before?" Urgency colored his words and he gripped her tiny hand, which was nestled against his large palm like a drop of rain. Her attention was focused on him, and she stepped unknowingly into a patch of moonlight. He saw her eyes and he was struck by the sorrow he found before darkness covered them again. They had stopped without him realizing, and now stood in a patch of black next to the silvery whiteness of the stone that peeked out at the moon beneath smears of mud and piles of trash.

"Yes." The word drifted towards him on a breath of air and he resisted flinching from her sudden closeness. He felt the brush of her bare arm against the fabric of his jacket.

"Who are you?" He whispered. Shadows moved, her face now turned away. The words came firmly.

"I am Éponine." She began to move forward.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Somewhere safe."

"And where is that?" She looked at him in answer, her eyes calculating. A morbid sense of curiosity filled him. Swallowing the habitual desire to look away, he met her gaze, determined to make sense of the girl before him. A humorless smirk crept its way along her mouth and she bit at her bottom lip as though hoping to catch it before he noticed.

"I do not know. I have not found it yet." She answered.

"That man. Will he follow us?" He asked.

"Yes, eventually. Come, we need to move."

Her blurry figure led him into the darkness.

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**I am proud to announce that this is my shortest chapter yet! Yeah... I apologize. **

**Thank you so much for reading and I would especially like to think everyone who left a review, reading them makes my day!**


	7. Éponine Led Him

Éponine led him to an area of the city where the Bourgeoisie lived. She stopped in the shadow of a large house and Enjolras took the brief respite as an opportunity to examine their surroundings. The houses were well maintained and the streets were clean. A prick of unease stabbed at Enjolras' neck. These were the people who lived so well and were so comfortable that they felt no need to respond to the cries of the poor, or the call to action issued by the Amis. Reluctant acknowledgement forced its way to the front of his mind. These were his people. He had come from a neighborhood nearly identical to this one. The men and women sleeping inside the houses were his father, mother, and childhood friends. He knew them, and yet he was now forever separated from them. He had been conscious of the irreversible rift he had created between himself and his family through his attempt at revolution. A devastating sense of isolation circled him as he realized just how many people he had lost.

A soft creaking broke through his thoughts, although the cold that was wrapped around the base of his neck lingered. He turned his attention from the occupants of the houses to the homeless girl beside him. She was currently gingerly lifting the door of a cellar, hidden amongst the brick foundation of the building.

"Éponine, what are you doing?" He whispered bemusedly. She turned to look at him.

"I am opening a cellar door." She replied. He refrained from rolling his eyes at the sarcasm evident in her husky voice.

"Obviously, but why?" He asked. As soon as the question left his lips the answer made itself evident. He grimaced at the look Éponine shot at him.

"Where were you planning on staying the night?" She asked, dryly. She gestured for him to descend the stairs before her.

It was dark inside the cellar, and the earthy smell of potatoes engulfed him. She followed, closing the door softly behind her. It was nearly impossible to see through the blackness. He hesitantly lowered himself to the floor. He sensed Éponine doing the same a few feet away.

"Have you done this often?" He asked over the sound of Éponine settling into the hard floor. She snorted.

"Oh, yes." Her voice carried like mist through the darkness. "I have an arrangement with the people who live here. If I stay quiet and do not do anything stupid then they – well, they do not even have to know." From the way she talked to him, Enjolras had a growing suspicion that Éponine believed him to be an idiot.

They lapsed into silence. Enjolras lay down and attempted to arrange himself into a position with enough semblance of comfort to allow sleep. He ended up curled onto his side, one hand holding the opposite arm, and with his back to the girl. Exhaustion was fluttering around the edge of his mind and he closed his eyes against the black.

He did not know how long he slept, or dozed, but the bloody ghosts of his friends caused him to jerk awake with a heartbroken gasp. He wished he could choose see them as how they were. He longed to remember Courfeyrac flirting easily with beautiful girls, or Jehan finding poetry in anything and everything. Instead, when he closed his eyes, he saw Courfeyrac falling dead at his feet, or heard the single shot beyond the barricade that silenced Jehan.

An immeasurable grief rose inside him. The Amis had known of the possibility that they would all die during their revolution, but Enjolras alone had been certain of it, and Enjolras alone had survived. He viewed his own life as a betrayal. Why should he be the one to live, when he was the one ready to sacrifice all of himself for the cause? Jehan should not have died. None of them should have died, except Enjolras.

The weight of his actions pressed him against the floor. There had been a way. He could have stayed. He could have refused to leave with Éponine and allow himself to be executed. But he did not. He had selfishly grasped at his life and held on. Beyond the walls of La Force he was lost, alone, and undeserving of every breath that filled his lungs.

Anger and guilt swirled through him as the images of his dead friends forced their way into his mind. He pressed a shaking hand against his mouth as his eyes watered and burning tears dripped from his eyelashes. A sob broke from his mouth, muted by his hand. An intense, unexplainable terror tensed his muscles and caused his entire body to shake in the darkness of the cellar. He had never known such despair and he had no way of combating it.

Then, breaking through his paralyzing, whirlwind of thoughts, a small hand gripped his shoulder. He breathed in violently at the touch. He could feel Éponine's presence behind him, not touching, but close. Her hand remained on his shoulder, and his body relaxed slightly. He reached behind and grasped her hand tightly in his. It was nowhere soon after, but he eventually fell asleep.

When he awoke he found himself face to face with a sleeping Éponine. Both of his large hands were cradled between hers and tucked beneath her chin.

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading and for leaving reviews! I'm sorry my updating is so sporadic. Thanks for sticking with me.**


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